“The hell it didn’t.”
“You just admitted you were in P10 coming out of the pits.”
“Then what the hell, in your oh-so expert opinion, happened?” My tone sucks. My attitude sucks. I suck. This isn’t how I want to handle things. I’m usually the guy who rolls with the punches with a smile on his face, not the petulant child I’m behaving like now.
But I’m frustrated, dammit. I was this close to finally seeing a point beside my name on the stat sheet. This close to hearing my father say, “Good job, son. I’m proud of you.”
Okay, that last part might be a fantasy. But a guy can dream, can’t he?
“Are you sure you want to hear this?” Ben asks, dropping his feet to the floor and putting the pen down on the desk.
I stop pacing and nod hesitantly, suddenly not so sure I want an answer to my question. What if he’s right? What if the pit stop wasn’t the problem? What if the problem was me?
“Then sit.” He jabs a finger at one of the guest chairs in front of his desk. “Your pacing is giving me whiplash.”
Reluctantly, I let myself fall into the designated chair with a groan. I’m hot and sweaty and exhausted and still in my damn racing gear. Who thought it was a good idea to have this conversation before taking a shower?
Oh, right. Me.
I unzip my race suit to my waist, revealing the Nomex shirt I wear underneath, branded with the names of LaRue’s sponsors. It’s long sleeved and I’m hot and sweaty like I always am after a race, so I’m still wearing way too much clothing for my comfort, but at least I’m minus one layer.
Ben rubs his stubbled chin thoughtfully, his dark eyes piercing me from across the desk. “Do you know what I think luck is?”
Huh? I have no idea where he’s going with this, and my face must show my confusion because he continues, not waiting for me to respond.
“Luck is when opportunity meets preparation. Today, you were prepared. You just didn’t have the right opportunity.”
“I would have, if you hadn’t forced me to pit.”
“Maybe,” he admits. “Maybe not. We’ll never know what would have happened if the yellow flag hadn’t come out. But boxing was the best option at the time. You had fresh tires. Your closest competitors didn’t. That gave you the best chance to beat them across the finish line.”
My stomach clenches and my hands ball into fists at my sides. “So you’re saying it was my fault that I fell to P11?”
“I don’t like to think of it in terms of fault.” He picks up the pen again and taps it on his desk. “We’ll go through the data at the debrief tomorrow, see what worked and what didn’t, and make plans for how to improve our performance in Monaco.”
He’s so calm. And so damn reasonable. I want to stay mad at him, but I can’t.
The knot in my stomach loosens and my fists unclench.
“Fine.” I stand, suddenly acutely aware of how sweaty and smelly I am. “I need to shower and change so I can face the media.”
Another thing I’m not looking forward to.
“Wait.” He rises and crosses around his desk to me. He’s so close I can see the pores between his five o’clock shadow and smell his body wash—cedar, subtle without being generically manly. And when he puts a hand on my shoulder, it’s like a bolt of lightning shoots down my body straight to my dick, making it twitch. “Don’t let the press get under your skin. You just had your highest finish yet this season. You’re moving in the right direction. Remember that.”
“I’ll try,” I manage to choke out around the lump that’s forming in my throat. Why can’t my father say stuff like that to me? Not that I don’t appreciate it coming from Ben. It’s just that I’d like to hear it from the man who raised me, not the one I want to fuck.
No, I tell myself.You don’t want to fuck him. He’s your race engineer. The man who could make or break your career. Fucking him would be a huge mistake. Hell, I don’t even know if he’s into guys. He and Elodie have a super strange vibe going on. For all I know, they’re fucking each other.
The corners of his mouth curve into a half-smile, and my disobedient dick picks that moment to remind me that yes, I do, in fact, desperately want to fuck him. Or be fucked by him. I could go either way.
“There is no try,” he says in a Yoda voice. Which, unfortunately, isn’t very good. “Only do.”
A warm feeling swells in my chest. He’s joking with me. At least I think that’s what he’s doing. It’s hard to tell. Ben’s not really the joking type. If there was a picture next to the word serious in the dictionary, it would be his.
I know it’s rude to laugh in his face, but I can’t help myself. “That is the worst Yoda impression I’ve ever heard.”
He shrugs, his half-smile widening ever so slightly. “I’m an engineer, not Jim Carrey.”
